


The Compass That Guides The Ship

by thebutterflycatcher



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 12AM writing, M/M, finding yourself, harry is lost and confused, it's a metaphor, lost at sea, louis is a cute lil pixie boy, louis teaches harry a life lesson, maybe they fall in love idk, the ocean is calming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:13:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4496697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebutterflycatcher/pseuds/thebutterflycatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Harry struggles with writing his college essay because he doesn't know what he wants to do with his life. But a blue-eyed boy shows him it isn't about where he's going in the future it's about who he is now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Compass That Guides The Ship

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling sad and nostalgic combine with Halsey's music and then this happened. Not sure if this is deep and poetic or just cliche .... lol feel free to let me know in the comments what you think :P

I have always loved the beach. Ever since I was younger I can remember going to the beach to think, to play, to dream. The salty air and quiet lull of the ocean waves kissing the sand every few minutes, causing the indignant seagulls to squeak angrily at the wave like it was committing a personal offense by touching the sand. It reminded me of high school in a way, the way people used to look at Ben and I after we came out.

 

I liked the ocean because it was constant. No matter how big a storm, or how far the tide went out, it always came back again, resuming its normal place brushing the sand lovingly again each day.

So it made sense that on the fourth day of twiddling my pen and staring at blank sheets of paper, with six crumpled up drafts of lined paper littering the floor and two empty expresso cups I was making the five minute trek from our small yellow roofed house down the stairs onto the sandy beach. 

The walk was so familiar I could probably do it in my sleep. There were seventeen steps from the top of the cliff to the sandy beach below. The fifth step from the top was wobbly on the right side and the 9th step near the bottom was halfway eroded into the cliff so you had to hop over it now.

I liked it though, the staircase, how no one ever fixed it, just left in peace to break and erode away. 

The nice thing about living on this side of the cliffs was that the majority of the public stayed over near the tourist section and boardwalk. Most of them never ventured over onto my section of the beach and most of the surfers avoided the ocean over here because once you got out to the deeper part there were jagged rocks that made it nearly impossible to surf waves.

The cottage on the left was owned by a wealthy business man who paid for upkeep of the house and a gardner for the yard but had only ever visited twice in the six years of owning the property. It was nice though, it felt like the beach was my own, like this small section of land was my safe space. It made me feel like I was untouchable.

So whenever the arguing got too loud, or Gemma's parties got too rambunctious I'd sneak down to the beach and sit on the rocks next to the water and I'd write. Poetry mostly, sonnets about lovers who didn't exist in this day and age, people who were strong and people who failed. People who loved, and people who lost. 

Gemma called it a hobby, but it was more that, it was the stability in my life. The one thing other than my heartbeat that I could carry with me forever, my words. 

Usually, sitting on the beach with the sun beating down on my skin and staring off into the abyss of the ocean brought me inspiration and imagination, the pen moving across the paper without much thought. 

Today, the ocean only brought me silence. College applications were due in two weeks and the short time my lawyer father and real-estate mogul mother stopped their arguing was to pressure me about getting into Yale where the both of them had attended. I think it may have been the only thing they agreed on.

Gemma, of course, was going to work at the real estate company with Mom after college, and therefore was excused from the career talks and since she was already in her final year of Yale, was the Golden Child of the family. 

Of course it wasn't enough for Dad, though, not when his son wanders off to the beach to write poetry and refuses to plays sports because I'm about as graceful as a newborn giraffe. That simply won't do.

Of course Gemma got the college essay prompt of "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" and simply wrote about how she was going to work for the family company and expand the Yale Legacy, whatever that means.

I, on the other hand, got the oh so charming prompt, "Describe yourself and what your ideal career is." Because that's easy when you know you want to be a electrical engineer and major in physics.

It's not so easy when you simply have no idea who you are or what you want to do. If anything, I'm just lost. I'm stuck out at sea with nothing but a blank map with different trails I could follow and no idea which one will guide me home.

I'm not sure how long I'd been sitting on the rocks tapping the pen in a rhythmic beat to the sound of crashing waves when I realize I'm not alone.

There's a boy staring at me from the side of the cliff, body slouched against the wall, windswept brown hair and a giant camera pointed at me.

When the boy removes the camera from his face the first thing I notice is his red cherry lips, a soft smirk on his mouth as he examines his picture on the small camera screen before he looks up at me with light blue eyes, crinkling lines by the side of his eyes.

"Hello," he says and I find myself transfixed by the small, pixie like boy, holding the large camera in his two dainty hands, the strap of the camera hanging around his neck and drawing my attention to his collarbones that contrast against the shear black shirt he is wearing. My eyes fixate on the top of what appears to be a tattoo as I try to make out the words etched permanently into the boys chest.

"Hi," I respond, releasing the breath I had been holding as his voice carries through the wind and reaches my ears. His voice silky smooth like honey. "Why are you on my beach?" I question as I meet his eyes again and I'm startled as he lets out a tinkering laugh, scrunching his noise up slightly as his eyes crinkle once again, lowering the camera and letting it hang from his neck.  
"Didn't know this beach belonged to you, Curly," The boy said with a grin as he stood up from the wall and approached me.

"Well-It-Uh-I mean, it doesn't. It's just not many people come down here," I say and I can feel my cheeks turn red under the persistent stare of the boy. 

"M' name Louis Tomlinson," The boy says as he moves his hand forward to shake mine.

"Harry Styles," I said shaking his hand, savoring the soft feeling of his skin against mine. I look down marveling at the size difference before turning to look up at him again.

"I'm taller than you from up here," The boy-er..Louis, says with a smile as I let out a laugh before standing up. It was so random and it seems like such a childish thing to say, but it makes me laugh. I realize I'm a few inches taller than the boy as he furrows his eyebrows in annoyance.

"Do you go Wilhearst?" I ask curiously, wondering how'd I missed the pretty boy with the camera in the hallways.

"Nope." Louis says with a grin as he plops down on the rock and turns to look out at the ocean. "I'm homeschooled,"

"Oh," I say moving to sit down again. That explains why I haven't seen him before. "How old are you then?" I ask.

"Eighteen. What about you?" Louis says looking at me.

"Seventeen," I respond. "But I'm a senior at Wilhearst," I explain.

"Figures. So what are you working on there?" Louis asks and I look down confused before realizing I'm still clutching the blank paper and pen.

"College applications," I reply moving to set the items down on the sand. No point in holding them if I'm not writing anything.

"Hmm, fun." Louis replies, a bit of sarcasm lacing his voice. "And where are you applying Curly?" 

"Yale," 

"So you're a studious one, then," Louis says but I don't hear any mocking in his voice, just curiosity as if he can't figure me out. If anything I'm confused by the enigma of a boy sitting next to me with his black jeans and shear shirt and his big camera.

"Well what have you written so far?" Louis asks after a bit, breaking the silence.

"My name," I reply and I don't mean for it to come out so sassy, but it does and then Louis is giggling next to me again and I smile at him. 

"No, really, though, what's your prompt?" Louis asks  
"Describe yourself and what your ideal career is" I recite from memory. At this point, I've read it over so many times I'm tempted to just copy and paste the bloody prompt and submit it like that.

"That doesn't sound too hard," Louis says after thinking it over for a bit.

"Yeah, well, maybe if you know who you are. I don't even know who I am, why are they asking me to write it down?" I ask even though I know Louis can't answer it.

"Maybe you just need someone to anchor your ship for a moment and let you ponder what you really want out of life." Louis says and his voice is soft as he stares at me. I smile at him.

"Well, maybe I'm just stuck at sea," I reply.

"Everything's lost before it's found, maybe you're just looking in the wrong place," Louis replies and then it's quiet again as we both turn to stare out at the ocean both of us wrapped up in our own thoughts. His words repeat over in my head as I smile to myself, I like this boy. He's different.


End file.
